As it grows late on Christmas Eve, my children hang their stockings in front of our shabby chic gas-converted fireplace. They are too excited to go to bed yet, so we check the “Santa-tracker” on my laptop. Yep, there he is over Greenland. Here he comes! As they finally let me tuck them in, I am peppered with questions about Santa. Will he come? Does he really exist? I look into their sweet, hopeful faces and tell them I know “for a fact that he is real.” What I can’t tell them, is the reason I know. I know Santa is real because years ago I was in a romantic triangle with him.

As my children fade off to sleep, I throw back the drink she and I used to drink—a rye and eggnog. I unplug my Christmas tree and remember how it felt all those years ago. With her, lying on the futon in my apartment above Bagels and Buns. Curled up together, breathing as if we were one. It felt like time had both stopped and was hurtling toward the future. We were young, dumb and in love in equal amounts. Me and the woman who would later become Mrs. Claus. She was the one that got away.

I met Eve when I was 21. I had just finished my shift at the warehouse in Northeast Calgary and luckily I stopped at a diner for a bite. I looked up from my toasted western and there she was; a soft pale face, a red vintage dress that hugged her curves, matching lipstick and a sexy little blunt cut—the kind that only looks good on a woman who’s young and full of life. She was on fire. One of those lost souls whose hunger for life draws you in as quickly as it spits you out. But still, you can’t resist. She walked over and asked me to sign a Greenpeace petition—something about saving reindeer near Carstairs. But I didn’t read it. I just took the pen, warm from her hand, and scribbled my name. I would have signed anything she gave me. Staring into her brown eyes, I was already gone.

She dressed in thrift shop frocks before that was a thing to do and rode around town on a reindeer she called âBlitzen.â She joked she named him that because, âIf I have a couple drinks, and get blitzed, he knows how to get me home.âMariah Llanes /
Swerve

She sat down and we talked. She bummed a cigarette. (Please don’t tell my kids that I used to smoke.) One cigarette turned into a pack and a long walk back to my place. I learned about her taste in music—only the coolest country and old reggae. Her favourite band? The Rolling Stones. She dressed in thrift shop frocks before that was a thing to do and rode around town on a reindeer she called “Blitzen.” She joked she named him that because, “If I have a couple drinks, and get blitzed, he knows how to get me home.” She told me that she was from the pole. I assumed she’d been a stripper. I didn’t want to judge, so I didn’t ask too many questions. There was no chance anyway.

She grabbed me at the door and drew my lips to hers. We laughed at how naughty we were being and I took her inside.

In the post-sex silence we looked up at the stars. Or where the stars would be through my water-stained ceiling. We talked about our hopes and dreams. I didn’t have any. But she pulled it out of me. “I want to be a writer,” I said. Which I think sounded better than a guy who drives forklift in a warehouse. I didn’t know if I believed I could write, but she saw promise in me and that was a start. She told me about herself. Her time up North. “There was this guy,” she whispered. “But it’s all over now…”

As Calgary got colder and Christmas grew near, we became inseparable. We’d slam nog-and-ryes and then just frolic, throwing beads on trees and laughing all the way… home. To bed. Eventually I convinced her to tell me more about this mysterious guy up North. His name was Santa. They’d met when he was coming through town doing Stampede Wrestling. He fit right in with the other characters in his red suit, wrestler’s belt and well-trimmed beard. He liked the showmanship part but he couldn’t stomach the violence, so he’d given it up. Now he was doing “good work,” giving gifts to children up the West Coast and the Alberta corridor. She said he wanted to expand worldwide but could only go so far on his Ski-Doo. I could sense the admiration she had for him. She confessed how he was much more focused than she was. “Who am I? A Greenpeace volunteer? A bass player in a rockabilly band? Someone who teaches reindeer to fly? Or someone who takes pottery classes?” I told her to back up. “You taught reindeers to fly?”

“Well, not all of them, just the ones who really wanted to. There are eight of them.”

I made a dumb joke about how her flying reindeer could be helpful to this Santa guy. She didn’t laugh. Even in my darkened apartment, I could see a spark in her eyes. We made love again but this time she didn’t do much of the work.

One night we were leaving some godawful experimental play she’d dragged me to, and outside there was no Blitzen. I asked her where he was? She confessed that she’d sent him and the others up to the North Pole to work with him. Maybe it wasn’t as ‘over’ as she claimed.

As Christmas got close, news started to spread that Santa Claus was coming to town. His picture was everywhere, on greeting cards and even cans of Coke. And this time, he was going to hit all the children in the world with his “flying reindeer.” Meanwhile Eve’s creative projects weren’t catching on at all. She was trying to sell these intricate grids that had little doors that opened, revealing candies or objects in them—one for every day in December—but no one was buying them. She was growing restless.

Her flying reindeer were launching her ex’s career and she just watched in silent stagnation in a one-bedroom apartment above Bagels and Buns. Our spirits were sinking. I had injured my back at the warehouse and was spending most of my time holed up watching TV. Eve took it upon herself to cheer me up. She hauled an entire pine tree up to my apartment so I could get the feel of being outdoors without having to move. She even decorated it with lights and ornaments. Then she put an angel on top of the tree, explaining dryly, “’cause we could sure use one right now.” We laughed, but then I heard a loud thump coming from the roof. Thinking it was a burglar, I crawled up to investigate. No one was there. Just Blitzen. He was not playful at all. He just snorted and banged on the roof with his enormous hooves as he circled me. Apparently he was there to give me a message from Santa. I asked what exactly that message could be. He charged off the roof, narrowly missing me, and gouged the side of my Toyota Corolla. When I asked Eve about it later, she took a deep breath and said “OK. It’s not exactly over between me and Santa.”

OK. It's not exactly over between me and Santa.

She swore she’d break it off with him. She knew he’d be coming to town soon, on Christmas Eve, and she would do it then. As the evening of the 24th rolled around, Eve looked tired and withdrawn. Even her blunt-cut seemed to sag. She said she couldn’t face him, “he’s too powerful, too important.” So she sat down on my kitchen counter, grabbed my chewed up Bic pen and began to write. “Dear Santa, I have not been good this year. In fact I’ve been naughty. I’ve met someone. I know how important your work is. I’ve always wanted to be there supporting you. But what about my hopes and dreams? If only…” She placed the letter on the table, next to a glass of milk (for his ulcers) and a plate of cookies (for his sweet tooth). She told me to leave it for him and that would be the end of it. But the way she looked at me, I knew she was wildly conflicted.

That night, after she left for her shift of ringing the bell for the Salvation Army, jealousy washed over me. I picked up the letter and crumbled it. I shoved it into my pocket, and devoured his milk and cookies, leaving just a few crumbs, as I do now for my children. Hoping they think Santa has read their note and eaten their snack.

I ran up to the roof waiting for the fight that I knew was long overdue. I could hear Eve in the distance, the ring ding dinging of her bell for the Salvation Army echoing up 17th Avenue. The singing of carollers coming from somewhere in Mount Royal. The air was so cold I could see my breath, and I waited. Then I could see him coming. He was arched against the night sky over by Stampede Park. He flew straight for me. He landed on the roof with a reckless thud. Santa, his sleigh, and eight reindeer. He got out.

He was a lot smaller than I thought he’d be, this man I’d vilified. He had these kind, if coal-coloured, eyes. I said “Hey.”

He said, “Ho… ho, ho. So you’re him,” his jovial smile turning cold.

“It looks that way,” I said. Not a great comeback but it’s what I blurted out. Then he gave me a thumbs-up handshake like guys give in warehouses. As I cupped his warm calloused hand, I felt a spark of something. Behind him, the presents in his sleigh with the names of children I knew from the neighbourhood and ones I would never know, in places beyond. He was doing important work. And to do important work in this world is a miracle. My jealousy melted away and I fumbled with the letter in my pocket, deciding to leave it there. “How’s Eve?” The kindness in his voice disarmed me. “Is she smoking? Is she drinking?”

“No,” I lied. I told Santa, “She’s a complicated woman.”

He laughed, “Aren’t they all?”

He turned and I thought he’d turn back and sucker punch me (a classic Stampede Wrestling move) but he didn’t. He went to his sleigh and dug out a present. “For you,” he said. I opened it. It was an Old Spice gift set—soap, aftershave and cologne. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ve been really wanting one.”

“I know,” he said, “that’s why I got it for you.”

Then he handed me another box. “For Eve,” he said, his voice almost cracking. He asked me to open it. The gift was a beautifully crafted wooden music box that played her favourite song, Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones. Santa said, “The wild horse is her. But I’m sure you know that by now.” We stared at each other for a moment, an unspoken understanding passed between us. Then I couldn’t believe what I said next: “Give her some time, she’ll come back to you.” From that moment forward I knew what you must now know, dear reader. That she did get back with him. She left me two months later. Back in my house, surrounded by sleeping children, I lay out their cute little letter to Santa. Next I devour his milk and cookies—our inside joke. And every year when he comes, in he thanks me for letting her go. The wild horse. The one that got away. Yes, Santa does exist. And I know it as fact. Buried in my box of old love letters, I still have that envelope addressed to “1 North Pole.” The very first letter to Santa. I never spoke to Eve again, but in a way I don’t need to. Because whenever I see a Christmas tree lit up I see her spirit. In every Advent calendar (they did catch on!) I see her creativity. Whenever I see a futon, I see a place where she and I used to make love. But don’t tell my kids about that, either. I’ll tell them one day. Or maybe one Christmas Eve when they have children of their own, I will read them this story and they will learn about the woman who inspired those around her. For Eve made me believe I could be a writer before I believed it myself. And more importantly she starred in one of my best stories….

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